


Simply Insomnia

by Moonlitdark



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bickering, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Muggle Life, Muggle Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28572759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlitdark/pseuds/Moonlitdark
Summary: After his failed attempt to follow an instruction as simple as murder, Draco is suddenly alone.  He tries to survive the best that he can within the Muggle world, but he can't sleep.  Now Potter has somehow found him, and won't go away.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	Simply Insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted a long time ago on Livejournal. So if it seems familiar, you've probably read it before.

Draco tried to remember the last time he’d slept through the whole night. A time when loneliness didn’t infuse with the darkness, stifling, suffocating. 

Staring into his blurry surroundings, he listened for the sounds of cars or stray people wandering home, hoping for elusive rest. Engines randomly rumbled past, bringing streams of light to break up the dark. Bursts of happy chatter often grew near, but trailed all too soon into the distance, letting the quiet seep in again. These brief sounds always alleviated a little of the silence, but not enough. 

He still couldn’t believe that no-one had come to get him. But it wasn’t that surprising he supposed, given his recent failure. Besides, maybe Snape _had_ looked and had been unable to find him. After all, who would ever think to look for him here? But then again, would it be beneficial for his general health to be located? Draco imagined that the Dark Lord had been given more than sufficient time to form a schedule of slow and horrific tortures in repayment for the youngest Death Eater’s failure to comply with a straightforward murder request. After all, it hadn’t been that complicated.

But pushing aside the last of his morals hadn’t been an easy task. And also, Apparition was apparently more difficult than it seemed. Draco had experienced much better success with Apparition countless times in the past - but when it had really mattered, concentration under pressure had been harder to maintain. Confused, he had landed unexpectedly on unfamiliar ground, rather than beside his rescuer - if that’s even what Snape was. 

Shivering under the blanket, Draco presumed that Potter and cronies were probably in the midst of a right good laugh at his expense. He wondered whether he should be either concerned or relieved that the action of murder had disturbed him so deeply. His whole life had been a long training programme in superiority and cruelty, therefore compliance with Voldemort’s instruction should’ve followed naturally. But faced with the prospect of ending a life, Draco’s faults had proven too great to surmount. Snape had stepped into Draco’s place to slaughter with ease and Draco could only observe with shock and dismay. But true mortification had only struck home during the solitude which followed.

Draco tried to recall what had happened to his wand. Somewhere in the blur of the recent nightmare, he and his most treasured possession had parted company. Suddenly left to fend for himself in a strange world devoid of magic, he’d fought down the urge to despair, aware that the emotion wouldn’t be constructive. But it was better this way. Now he could avoid the delightfully painful tortures no doubt in store for him back amongst the fold. His old life shattered and his good name irrevocably tarnished, it would serve him well to concentrate on a new life in a safe location until Potter did his job. He only hoped that the Gryffindor would develop a sense of urgency. Once the Dark Lord was gone, Draco might at least be able to venture back into his world, if surreptitiously.

A few days into his lonesome panic, hunger had raised the important issues. Money was of the utmost priority. If he was to support himself, he required currency. But since the galleons contained within the family vaults were somewhat inaccessible (and most likely wouldn’t be much assistance in this environment anyway), Draco knew that he would need to find another way to gain the necessary funds. And urgently, unless he wanted to starve. Or freeze. But he had no idea how one gained employment in this world or what use any of his years of wizard training would prove to be within the Muggle workplace. Given his failure at dipping into the world of crime, he doubted that his guile would see him through. Some low key and unskilled venture seemed wisest, but his pride had abhorred the idea of lowering either himself or his standards.

A sudden knock on the door sent a nauseating wave up from his stomach. Instinctively, Draco stilled and waited through a few more terrifying raps until the building finally lapsed once again into silence and he sighed out his relief.

Although Draco had suspected even at the time that a man who offered employment to bedraggled, half-starved youths huddled in doorways might have another agenda in mind, the situation had been desperate enough for Draco to pounce on any opportunity. So far, he’d managed to side-step a looming threat, but it was ever-present - deliberate bumps and light brushes against his person helping to instil the need for caution. 

Somehow, he didn’t think that lodgings were a usual perk of this vocation, but the promise of shelter had been tempting enough to ignore his suspicions. But his employer’s leer… it worried Draco. So, he mostly spent countless and repetitive evenings huddled in his room, grateful for heat and worn covers, mercifully and torturously alone.

…………

Harry would've walked on by without a second glance, but something in the posture, together with an unusual awkward hesitance, caused him to look again.

 _Not the most dignified stance for Draco Malfoy_ , he thought. If that's even who it really was. Surely not, after all Malfoy wouldn't be casually hanging out in front of a music store, not when he had running for his life and cowardly hiding to be getting on with. The Slytherin shouldn't even know what a Muggle music store _was_. But preservation of life didn't seem to be on his ex-classmate’s list of immediate priorities. Instead, Malfoy appeared completely absorbed in the operation of a flat disc held in the palm of his hand. 

Lingering in an alcove to quietly observe away from the bustle of people around him, Harry contemplated his best move, anxious not to be spotted too early. But as Malfoy’s attention was so focused on the item he was holding, Harry suspected that he could’ve been standing directly in front of him and still have gone unnoticed. 

After much peering and examination of the device, one forefinger extended to tentatively push at a carefully contemplated button. A woman strolling past jumped slightly as a vivacious whoop of joy indicated success with the appliance.

This _couldn't_ be Malfoy. It just wasn't possible. Whooping for joy was not the action of either a stuck-up Slytherin or an attempted murderer on the run. But it _did_ look like him. A very, very suspicious likeness. But in a Muggle town? The beauty of it suddenly rushed at Harry. It was so absurd; it was almost a brilliant plan. Malfoy would’ve been safe here, hidden in plain view amongst the Muggles for these past few months. Voldemort or his minions were extremely unlikely to frequent this area for spontaneous bouts of retail therapy, so no-one would ever find him. Except, Harry reminded himself, he just had.

Harry’s would-be nemesis looked different… paler, thinner. A great deal less superior without his pristine robes and faithful minions. Dressed in casual worn jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt, Malfoy looked diminished, but Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

…………

Over the next few days, Harry’s vital quest to end a war fell almost forgotten by the wayside in favour of watching an unexpected phenomenon. It was _not_ stalking, he reasoned, it was… gathering essential information. He just hadn’t quite worked out how that information could be used yet. Yes, definitely not stalking. Was it Harry’s fault that Malfoy appeared everywhere Harry went? Probably, since Malfoy always got there first with Harry trailing in the shadows behind him - but still… there had to be a degree of coincidence. Harry was searching for Horcruxes; it was just that Malfoy always seemed to be nearby while he was doing it. There wasn’t, he admitted, much likelihood of locating Horcruxes in the bakers or the grocers, but you never could tell where they might be hidden. Voldemort was a wily nemesis, and therefore would hide his soul in the most unlikely of places. This poor attempt at logic spurred Harry on.

It was fascinating facts like Malfoy actually _frequenting_ places such as grocers that kept Harry glued to his task. He’d quickly taken lodgings at a local inn, anxious to continue his surveillance. For some reason, watching the previously proud Slytherin purchase Muggle foodstuffs and household products was a bizarre enough occurrence to keep Harry riveted. 

But despite this clandestine behaviour, Harry had observed for days and not reached many conclusions. He debated how best to approach what was essentially an attempted murderer, but he hadn’t formed any great or foolproof plan. Eventually, Harry had decided that he would simply chap on Malfoy’s door and see what happened. Wand at the ready, of course.

There hadn’t been any immediate response to the knock, not even after several long minutes. But Harry knew that Malfoy was in there, he’d seen him enter with a newly purchased lava lamp perched over his shoulder not long before.

Harry was debating just how rude Apparating uninvited into someone’s home would be, when he’d suddenly began to wonder why he was fretting over manners after this person had invited Death Eaters into Hogwarts and tried to murder the Headmaster. He didn’t entirely believe that Malfoy would ever have taken the life, but it was thoughts like that which only served to confuse him.

“Hello, Malfoy,” seemed an extreme anti-climax to all the non-stalking Harry had been participating in lately, but it appeared to have got his point across after he’d popped into what he presumed to be a lounge. 

But he was having trouble forming a follow-up statement. Harry had rather hoped that Malfoy would’ve said something by now, but although the startled blond had predictably leapt to his feet in apparent horror, he didn’t seem in any rush to speak.

“So, how are you?” Harry asked. Very civil. Polite. Surely the gesture would be appreciated, but Harry could see frantic eyes darting around for an escape route. He briefly wondered whether there was a back door to this building - but quickly deduced not. He was positive that it would’ve been utilised by now if there was. Harry was going to need to reassure Malfoy that he wasn’t here to either kill or capture - even though he wasn’t entirely sure of that fact himself.

He tried for a calming tone. “It’s okay. I just want to talk.”

“A – about _what_?”

The stutter was unusual, but at least it was finally a verbal response. 

“I can think of quite a few things, can’t you?”

“Not… really.”

Oh, denial. Well, that was a valid option, Harry supposed. “I’m going to talk to you anyway. I just thought it would be nicer if you agreed.”

“And _why_ would I agree to that?”

“’Cos you don’t really have a choice, when you think about it,” Harry declared, wand tapping his side.

“Is that meant to scare me?”

“Not really. You look scared enough already.”

“I’m not scared.” The slow backing away seemed to contradict that. “Not of you.”

“What _are_ you scared of then?”

“Nothing.”

“Of course. That’s why you're hiding here.”

Malfoy’s slow backwards shuffle came to a halt. “I am _not_ hiding.”

“Did you just get tired of all your Death Eater pals, then? Or are they stashed in the closet, ready to pounce?”

“Oh, yes. _Dozens_ of them. They became quite disgusted by their beautiful, luxurious abodes and decided to live here, just on the off chance that you might stop by. What do you _want_?”

That was more reminiscent of the Slytherin that Harry knew. He watched with amusement as Malfoy’s back straightened and haughtiness gradually returned.

But Harry was still attempting calm conversation. “I told you. To talk.”

“Talking’s not going to help anything, Potter.”

“Maybe it will.”

Malfoy took a step forward. Just one. “And how is that?”

“I want to understand. What you did. Why you're here.”

“I’m here because there’s nowhere else for me to go. You know that.”

“Poor Malfoy.”

And there was the sneer. “Your sympathy is overwhelming.”

“What did you expect? Dumbledore’s dead.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“I know. But you should still think yourself lucky that I'm not dragging you off to the Ministry.” 

“Really?” was the ominously drawled response. “Then go ahead.” 

Malfoy wasn’t the only one who could pull off an ominous drawl. “Maybe I will.”

Harry’s reluctance must’ve shown. Grey eyes scrunched as Malfoy peered at him. “Why are you here? If you're not planning on commencing my imminent arrest?” 

“I'm... not sure.” 

“That’s a great plan, Potter. Very well thought out. If you don’t have anything interesting to say and you aren’t going to call upon some hidden fleet of Aurors, then maybe you could just sod off now.” 

“No, I’ll think I’ll hang around for a while. Do you have anything to eat in here?”

Malfoy’s jaw dropped. “Do you think that I’m inviting you to lunch or something?”

“I’m inviting myself,” Harry declared, perhaps rashly turning his back to commence a hunt for the kitchen. It didn’t take long. “Nice place you're squatting in.”

“I’m what?” Malfoy’s head twirled in his direction, clearly too stunned by the odd behaviour from his unexpected guest to commence hexing. But then again, Harry hadn’t seen any evidence of magic from Malfoy during his distant study. 

“Squatting. Living in someone else’s house without paying rent.” Harry gestured to the building and contents around him. “Or does your job yield a high enough wage for this?” 

Malfoy finally hovered closely on Harry’s heels, but still no move had been made to forcibly extract him. “Of… course it does.”

“Yeah, ‘cos the hourly rate for a teenage waiter is huge.”

“It’s a perk.”

Harry abruptly stalled in front of the dull white fridge tucked in the corner of the room and Malfoy nearly ran into him. “A perk? What the hell are you doing to earn this ‘perk’?”

“None of your business.”

“Oh, god. That bloke with the leer, right?” 

“He’s not that bad.”

“Not _that bad_? Whatever happened to the great Malfoy pride?”

“Perhaps it was lost somewhere along with my wand.”

The refrigerator light lit cheerily as Harry swung open the door and stared wide-eyed at the contents.

Draco had clearly seen the astonishment. “What?”

“Do you have enough Coke in this fridge?”

“Why? Do you think I might run out soon?”

“Not likely,” Harry replied, taking stock of the huge pile of cans stored in the bottom half of the appliance.

“I was informed that cola was an essential staple Muggle food.”

“By who? A twelve year old?”

“So… isn’t that right?”

“It depends on how you look at it, I suppose. But there does seem to be a lack of food items in here.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, bread. Milk. And what’s _that_?”

“Cheese.”

“That isn’t cheese. At least, it’s not anymore. It’s gone all mouldy.”

“That particular brand was expensive enough to denote quality.”

Harry sighed in irritation but didn’t further comment. If Malfoy couldn’t afford heat and light without offering sexual favours but considered expensive dairy products to be a high priority, then that was none of Harry’s concern.

He snatched two cans, straightened and thrust one in his host’s direction.

“Seriously, did you shag your boss to get this place?” So much for not making any further comments on the subject.

Draco sighed, taking hold of the can. “Not yet.”

“Not yet? You're really _thinking_ about it?”

“Like you pointed out, Potter – this place will need paying for.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond.

…………

A few hours later, Harry landed back in the inn with a quiet pop, intrigued by the conversation he had participated in. Awkward at first, stilted at last, and not terribly informative. As predicted, Malfoy hadn’t obviously been pleased to receive his unexpected guest, but also hadn’t really put much effort into either throwing Harry out or explaining his actions.

And Harry had been surprised at what little perseverance he had displayed towards discovering the answers.

Harry reminded himself that Malfoy might be hatching some plot to either regain some standing in the magical world or hand Harry over to Voldemort. But that didn’t seem all that likely, given Malfoy’s apparent isolation from the wizarding world. It struck him that Malfoy might just be grateful for any company relating to the world he belonged to, even it was Harry’s, but that was probably fanciful nonsense and likely more related to Harry’s own recent feelings of isolation during his self-inflicted mission.

The wisest move by far would be to alert either the Order or the Ministry of Malfoy’s whereabouts, but he was reluctant to do so. There seemed to be noticeable differences between the boy Harry remembered from school and the person in this town. Of course, Harry knew that essentially the two were one and the same, but there was a certain innocent bewilderment about the current Malfoy. A little more humbled, a little more scared. Curious to learn more, he didn’t want to drag Malfoy from his new environment.

The thought of leaving Malfoy here to his own devices didn’t seem somehow right, but Harry couldn’t understand why he cared. He really shouldn’t be concerned about what would become of someone who had tried to commit murder, but couldn’t shake the idea of offering assistance, however unwelcome it may be. Therefore, he’d follow his instincts for now and remain, just to see what happened.

…………

This infringement on Draco’s privacy was becoming ridiculous. Over the past few days, Potter’s presence had been almost a constant - continuously here, instead of out slaying Dark Lords like he should be. This irritant was going to require nudging on his way soon, but the prospect of an empty shack to reside in somehow didn’t seem very appealing. And besides, he did find himself more than slightly curious as to what Potter actually thought he was going to achieve by this harassment. 

And the answer to Potter’s latest lame query should’ve been obvious. “Does it _look_ like I had a good day?”

His guest’s serious expression was doing a piss poor job of camouflaging amusement. “Hmm… perhaps not. Is that orange juice?”

“Clearly.” An unfortunate incident with a small, screeching child had left Draco’s uniform stained a luminous shade of orange. The scent of sugary citrus had been keeping him on the brink of nausea for hours, but no replacement clothing had been offered. Bloody Muggle barbarians.

“Want me to fix that?” Potter enquired, flicking his wand.

“No,” Draco snapped. “And will you put that _away_?”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

If Draco couldn’t use magic, then his uninvited houseguest wasn’t going to either. The reminder of what he couldn’t have was somewhat upsetting.

“I’ll just wash it,” Draco stated coolly, glancing around to determine whether any of his paltry belongings were missing.

“But it would be easier if I -” 

“I can manage.” And he could. He hadn’t quite worked out how to successfully use the washing appliance, but the results were definitely improving. And anyway, blue was a perfectly acceptable colour, even if most of his undergarments did all now co-ordinate in that same delicate shade.

“Well, at least your boss didn’t follow you home tonight.”

Draco dearly wished that Potter hadn’t witnessed that atrocious event. The memory of dodging a grappling, middle aged man on his doorstep was not one Draco cared to share with anyone. Or even recall. “He… won’t do that again.” 

Potter brandished a wooden spoon as he frowned. “If you say so.” How odd. 

“I do.”

“What makes you think that he won’t?”

“He’s not going to force himself on me.” Draco was sure if that had been his employer’s intention, then his virginity would’ve been long since lost. But he wasn’t about to admit that, _especially_ not utilising the word ‘virginity’, or any of its derivatives.

As Draco untied his orangey apron, an enticing aroma distracted him.

“What’s that?”

“Dinner.”

“You made dinner? Why?”

Potter shrugged. “Thought you’d be hungry after work, I suppose.” 

“Do you hang about here just to pester me?”

“Not only that.”

“Is it poisoned?”

“Would I tell you in advance if it was?” Potter asked, turning to recommence the stirring.

“Probably not.”

“So, are you going to eat it?”

Engrossed in the bizarre scene of his arch-enemy cooking him a meal, Draco enquired cautiously, “What is it?”

“Some sort of pasta.”

“Sounds delicious.” 

“Hey, it’s food. You should just be grateful that it didn’t come out of a tin.”

Lamenting the fact that he was now well acquainted with various forms of cheap, tinned food products and the archaic torture device necessary to open them, Draco nodded a silent and outwardly grudging appreciation as he sat in the chair Potter was indicating. If it _was_ poisoned, then at least he wouldn’t need to return to the restaurant for his gruelling shift tomorrow.

…………

There were now other confusing noises in the night, occurrences which Draco related to the other occupant. The one he couldn’t seem to get rid of. Potter used to eventually leave him in peace at the end of the long, dreary days, but lately Draco had wandered off to bed, too tired to even try to shoo his guest away first. So, Potter had begun to stay at night, and Draco hadn't protested. Much, anyway. He still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t yet removed this annoyance from his life. Staring at the ceiling, he tried to determine what caused the tiny, muffled thuds and bumps for some hint of what Potter was up to.

At the moment, he had something more important to focus on. Sleep. Such a simple mission, an easy task, but one that felt impossibly difficult to achieve. But it was simply insomnia, nothing more challenging. Draco turned in search of a comfortable position, curled in, stretched out, but nothing helped, nothing relaxed. His head throbbed with frustration and the pain of holding in tears that he knew to be pointless. 

He embraced distractions throughout the daylight hours and they worked their magic well enough, almost allowed him to forget, but there were none to be found here, in the stillness. He had tried playing calming tones, beautiful and unusual notes. But music wasn’t the right sound to soothe. The very action of frantically seeking rest always took him further from his goal. 

Draco despised being here, in this house. He’d hoped that his stay would be mercifully short, but as the one person who could perhaps free him from this nightmare was still currently lingering here without action, he feared that it wouldn’t come to an end anytime soon. 

Giving up on the idea of rest, he stretched in resignation, peeled himself out from under the sheet and made his way into the next room. He had almost made it to the couch before his unfocused eyes recognised the shape of his eternal guest relaxing on that piece of furniture. In _Draco’s_ spot. In fact, the angle which Potter was lying at was taking up the whole ruddy sofa.

Potter’s eyes peeked almost amiably over the edge of the book he was holding. 

Insomnia overriding even the pretence of tolerance at this fresh brashness, Draco snapped, “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?” 

“Not really.”

Draco’s head was really starting to throb. He _really_ needed to get some sleep.

“Nothing important to do?” Draco prompted.

“Nope, nothing urgent.” 

“What were you doing here, anyway? In this town?”

“Something pointless.”

“Shift over,” Draco sighed, shunting Potter’s body along to reclaim his spot on the worn cushions.

…………

Harry blinked, coming awake. There was a strange weight against his side, pushing him down into the cushions at an uncomfortable angle. Further investigation revealed this to be due to a body leaning against his hip and stomach, topped with a mass of blond hair splayed over Harry’s lap. Snoring. Not delicate sniffles - no this was all out, nasal-shuddering reverberations.

He would’ve laughed at the absurdity of his position if not for the unfortunate placing of his body’s habitual early morning enthusiasm, which was currently and happily poking up approximately three inches from Malfoy’s cheek. This was not good. Not good at _all_. He had a distinct feeling that mind over hot, throbbing matter wasn’t going to work with a warm body draped over his, even if it was Malfoy’s. 

Small movements would be wisest. Or he could just pretend to be asleep when the male lying on his thighs awoke. But then again, perhaps letting Malfoy wake up to a close up of Harry’s tented jeans wouldn’t be a much better plan. He didn’t even want to contemplate how badly that might go.

A tiny bum-shuffle to the side brought forth a louder snort from Malfoy’s nose and Harry froze. Malfoy squirmed, adjusting his position and the tempting stroke of cheek against clothed thigh combined with the horror of Malfoy’s sleeping face settling closer to Harry’s erection brought forth a film of horrified sweat from Harry’s pores.

He lowered a shaking hand to the blond mane, intending to attempt a gently nudged relocation. A moan coupled with a light nuzzle into his touch should’ve been plenty of warning to remove his palm, but Harry delayed, suddenly fascinated. Malfoy’s hair was just as soft as it looked. Crap. It really wasn’t helping.

Rampant teenage boys shouldn’t need to cope with this kind of awful temptation. Harry had long since noticed that he might be a little more drawn to boys than girls, but this wasn’t the method he’d wanted to use to confirm that suspicion. 

This was _Draco Malfoy_ and Harry didn’t want to do anything of a sexual nature with him… well, he shouldn’t… but that smell wasn’t helping either and oh my god, Malfoy’s hand rose to his face to sweep away some irritation and shortly plopped down to rest on the nearest surface, which unfortunately was Harry’s groin.

Harry clapped a hand over his panting mouth, worried that his breathing was becoming too loud. He didn’t want to wake the person on his lap, couldn’t bear the consequences.

But _why_ was Malfoy on his lap? There was a perfectly utilisable mattress in the other room (which Harry swiftly decided that he didn’t want to be thinking about just now), so why had this spot seemed the more appealing option? An answer to that query formed in Harry’s lust-addled mind, but he hastily and decisively stomped it down. 

Malfoy didn’t harbour any hidden agenda, any attraction (and nor did Harry), so the quicker Harry ceased this inappropriate enticement, the better.

He’d really only wanted to understand Malfoy better, but he hadn’t had any intentions of becoming this close and he had to fix this soon, because oh _god_ , if that squirming didn't stop immediately, then Harry was going to do something really inappropriate.

In desperation, he wrenched himself quickly out from beneath the temptation. Malfoy’s head bounced down to the couch cushion and surprised, tired eyes squinted upwards.

Fingers clasped around Harry’s wrist, tugging him back down. Having been absorbed in his war related tasks for too long, Harry hadn’t had physical contact in months and loneliness was evidently a hazardous emotion if Harry’s reactions were any indication.

He needed to say something, needed to struggle more convincingly. Needed to get rid of this bloody erection before Malfoy saw it. “I should go now...”

There was another tug on his wrist. “Just stay.” 

“Do you really want me to?” Harry blurted, certain that the answer would be a resounding no.

“I'm so tired, Harry...” Malfoy's eyes fell shut once more, his breathing shortly becoming deep and even.

Somehow that didn't make it any easier to leave. Harry perched himself gingerly on the edge of the couch and watched as Malfoy slept. 

…………

“You need a telly,” announced Potter as he scooted to the other side of the couch. These frequent, annoying visitations still riled Draco's patience, but he supposed that it might be an improvement on the many evenings he'd previously spent huddled alone. 

“I need a what?”

“A telly. Television. Helps to relieve the monotony.”

“If it’s so monotonous being here, feel free to leave.”

“You could probably pick one out really cheap at that second-hand shop, you know.”

Noting the fact that his lack of interest in this subject had been skilfully ignored, Draco sighed. 

“Why would I want to? I don’t even know what it is.”

“You’ll like it, trust me.”

Curled in one the corner of the small, battered sofa, Draco surveyed Potter's uncomfortable stance at the other end. “You're practically hanging over the edge. Doesn’t look exactly comfortable.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Potter assured, grappling for a handhold as he nearly lost balance on his perch.

“Sit on the floor then,” Draco snickered. “Maybe it’d be safer for you.” 

“Maybe it would.”

The odd expression he was treated to as Potter's back sank into the cushions beside him puzzled Draco greatly, but he dismissed it as inconsequential.

…………

“What’re you gonna do about this bloke? Your boss, I mean?”

“Not much I _can_ do,” Draco shrugged, shoving a pea around his plate. Potter's cooking was unfortunately becoming a highlight of his day. “I need the job, so I’ll just avoid him.”

“And how long do you think that'll work for?”

“Why do you even care?”

“I don't want to see you get hurt.”

Draco was gaping, he could feel it. Potter’s idiotic statements often had that effect on him.

“Don't worry yourself about it.”

“I didn't say I was worried.”

“Then drop it.”

“So, you're not at all bothered by it?”

“That's right.”

“Well, I just hope that you have fun when he finally decides that he's waited long enough.”

“I'm sure I will.”

“Malfoy -”

Draco had heard plenty. This conversation was not going to continue. “I don’t need to justify myself to you. Just because you _won’t go away_ , doesn’t give you the right to pry into my life.”

“Neither it does.”

“Glad you understand that,” Draco growled, stabbing a wayward chip, hoping that this endurance would be over soon.

…………

Harry was growing restless. Not because he wanted to leave, but because he was feeling more uneasy with every passing day. Malfoy was settled into his life here, accepting what came his way (and what would inevitably come) with an alarming lack of trepidation. This was not Malfoy’s lot in life, not where he should be. But to take him back into a world which would likely persecute him seemed no less cruel. Harry had faith, belief in his friends and companions, a trust perhaps unwarranted to all. 

But to leave Malfoy here to sell himself for lodgings and food, Harry didn’t think that was better. Maybe Malfoy couldn’t see that there were other alternatives. Or maybe Harry couldn’t see that there weren’t. Confused and frustrated, he decided that the choice was clearly not his, but Harry had to be certain that Malfoy knew that there _was_ a choice to be made.

Sensing that a subtle approach would merely be dismissed, Harry fought to find his voice.

…………

The dull thud of a book smacking down onto the carpet shook Draco from his doze. “Do you really want me to leave?”

Rubbing one eye with a weary fist, Draco whispered, “I don’t care.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I don’t need a reason not to, after all the years we’ve spent hating each other.”

“What if I gave you a reason to care, would that help?”

Draco wasn’t sure if he understood the question. He was still trying to work it out when a hand reached over the sofa for his. Draco had intended to rescue his limb before contact, but his hand was still on the cushion when Potter’s light touch brushed against his wrist.

“No. I don’t see how.”

“Then what if I gave you a reason for me to leave instead?” 

“What reason?”

Potter’s stare levelled with Draco’s, unrelenting. “Come back with me.”

“No.”

“It has to be better than this. It's where you belong.”

“They won’t want me there.”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“I don't _want_ to find out.”

“Yes, you do. Or I wouldn't still be here.”

Draco gazed into the face before him; glimpsed a future beyond it that he might yet have, blurred around the edges with danger and doubt. He could swat away the fingers which had crept around his wrist. Or he could accept the assistance, take grasp and hold on. Blindly, knowing that it could destroy the precious little security he still clung to. 

But whatever it was that Draco had created here, it was _his_ , no-one else's. And he valued that, even the nightmare of this unfamiliar life. 

Either choice wasn’t much, but maybe each was something. 

As their fingers linked, Draco made his decision. Relieved, despite his fear.


End file.
